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Reflections
Visana frowned. The long trip south from Dalaran to Stormwind had been taxing. She closed her eyes briefly, and once again saw the graceful towers of the City of Magi in flames, crumbling to nothingness as the Scourge overran what had been her home for ten years. Home… She scoffed. It had been a prison for the past year or so, ever since that ambush in Hillsbrad. No one could prove anything, but she had still been denied any further study than what she had already received. She had still gone through the motions of grief, but it hadn’t seemed real. It hadn’t seemed real. She didn’t know why she had killed Moarte. She had a nagging feeling, and she had quite a few nagging feelings these days, that it was so that there would be no direct witnesses. Dark magic was frowned upon in Lorederon and nowhere more so than Dalaran. No. It used to be frowned upon. Not anymore. Not with everyone dead, and the city in ruins. Visana shook her head sadly. Prison or not, she had lived there for ten years. It was still a sad moment when the towers had come crashing down…and when the sounds of slaughter had drifted up to her and her fellow apprentices, standing on that cliff that fateful day. It was, she reflected, just as well that they’d left when they did. One more minute and she would’ve been dead. One more minute and the Grimoire would’ve been in the hands of the Scourge. Oh yes. The thing had survived the destruction of Dalaran, and it had somehow, inexplicably, found its way into Visana’s saddlebags*. The odd thing about this Grimoire, it seemed to her at any rate, was that it seemed to write itself at certain points. It just seemed to get longer and longer, and no matter how long she spent studying it, it just never seemed to run out of pages. And, always, she would get the end of a night of reading with a massive headache. The pain in her head never seemed to stop, and she had given up on trying to stop it. It had become a part of her, just as the odd looks and glares that she received from people had. Roseli, as ever, was a friend, but beyond that, not many people wanted anything to do with her. She sighed. The night after the fall of Dalaran, she had shown Roseli the book, and, just as she had thought, it concerned her. “I just don’t know, Viz.” Roseli had said. “I just don’t know. It looks like something one of those Orcish spellcasters would’ve penned during the War.” “Well, why was it just sitting on a desk in the Library?!” Visana had exclaimed. “I mean, it was just lying there in plain sight! Anyone could’ve taken it.” “You did say that it wasn’t there when you sat down, didn’t you?” Roseli had replied. Visana had stayed silent after that. Roseli had hit the nail on the head. It hadn’t been there when she’d sat down. And it seemed to have a mind of its own. That was the most difficult thing. Usually both at the same time It seemed to think, and a book that thought…well, it wasn’t a good thing. Surely it wouldn’t be a good thing. The young mage turned warlock sighed. It was…messy. Why had she found it? Had it sought her out, specifically? Did it know that she was curious, that she enjoyed reading? But most importantly of all, why her? Silently, Visana cursed herself and her curiosity. If it hadn’t been for her… Moarte would’ve still been alive. She wouldn’t be a murderer. She closed her eyes. She would be getting enough sleep. Things would be different. Visana glared at the glowing green cover of the book. It sat there, taunting her, inviting her to read it. It’s too late to change anything now, young one. I still have much to teach you. And I know where you will find people similar to you… Visana blinked. “Similar to me…” Roseli shifted in a sleeping bag next to her, fast asleep. The prospect of finding people who were like her, who had gone through the same thing as her, who might provide a shoulder to lean on in the coming days… Yes. That sounded good. She would look for these “others” in the morning, but for now… Visana blew the candle out, and attempted to go to sleep. Somewhere in her subconscious, something cackled gleefully, not entirely sane. *As such things often do. In fact, most things seem to somehow find their way to whichever person most needs it, or which will make the plot move along.